Thirty-Five
From her bedroom, Clara heard the kitchen door open and knew it was her mother at the same moment she realized she’d been waiting for her mother.
Feeling sick and sorry for herself, part of Clara just wanted to surrender, wave the white flag, and let Nina take care of her, bring her soup and toast and ginger ale.
Salt water to gargle and ease her throat.
But the stubborn part wanted to pretend to be asleep so she didn’t have to talk to Nina.
She could hear her mother moving around downstairs, opening and shutting cupboards.
So often during the last weeks, when Clara was caught up in cooking and successfully got to the finish of a dish, the exquisitely clear chicken broth she made for soup, the angel food cake that was tall and light, the Bolognese that simmered all day and was perfectly balanced, she wanted to show her mom.
She wanted to point and say, Look what I did!
to someone who would appreciate not just the effort (which Bridie and Sam did) but the achievement (which they did not unless she explained it, and that was no fun).
But then she would force herself to remember her father’s face the morning he read the note.
How he walked around the house for days distracted and distraught, and Clara’s anger flared so quickly she could feel it in her fingers and toes.
But. She was so tired. From the fever, yes, but also in her bones.
A kind of tired that no amount of sleep could ameliorate.
Her anger had fueled her for weeks and weeks and she didn’t know how to give it up, but it was weighted.
She closed her eyes and imagined walking down the stairs and approaching her mother kindly, lovingly.
Nina would be so happy. She could imagine how Nina would rush to her and hug her and kiss her and say, Oh no, you’re so warm.
Let’s get you upstairs and back in bed. Then Nina would make her lunch.
And maybe she would sit with Clara until she fell asleep and maybe Clara would wake up and Nina would be making dinner and Clara, for the first time in ages, could relax and bask in a three-dimensional kind of love, one she could see and taste and smell.
But she didn’t want to fall into the quicksand of complacency so easily.
She imagined her father coming home and finding Nina in the kitchen.
What would that be like for him? Would it ever be okay?
Could Nina and Sam be friends eventually?
Maybe. But then the photo of Garret would bubble up in her head and she’d feel queasy over whatever the hell that was.
Still. Maybe Clara could put down her knife, both literally and figuratively, and take a breath, take a break, take a nap. She headed downstairs.
“Look who’s up,” Nina said when Clara entered the kitchen, as if she’d never left. “You have a fever,” she said, seeing Clara’s flushed face and glassy eyes.
“I know. I took aspirin.”
“Are you hungry? Do you need anything? What can I do for you?”
Clara shrugged. Avoided looking Nina in the eyes. “I don’t know.”
Nina felt like she was dealing with a skittish kitten and had to keep her distance, no sudden movements, she couldn’t gather her firstborn into her arms and hold on for life. “I bought some things. Want to look?”
“Okay.”
“Soup?” she asked, holding up the can. “Crackers? Sandwich?”
“I could eat some soup.”
Nina opened the drawer where she’d always kept the can opener, but it was full of serving utensils and tongs. She stood, stumped.
“I moved it over there,” Clara said, pointing to another drawer. Nina started opening all the drawers and cabinets. Everything had been rearranged. “This is—interesting,” Nina said, keeping her tone light even though she was unfairly annoyed by how Clara had improved things.
“It all works better. The triangle, you know.”
“I do know.” Nina laughed. “How do you know about the work triangle?”
“You have all those books,” Clara said, pointing to the long shelf of cookbooks. “I read a lot of them.”
“When I moved into this house,” Nina said, “your grandmother came and organized the kitchen for me one day. I was pregnant with you and sick all the time. For some reason I never thought about changing things. I left everything where it was. Strange, right?”
“Not as strange as the things you did decide to change.”
“Well, that’s true,” Nina said. She filled the kettle with water and put it on the range, lit the burner. “Do you want to talk about it?” she said, turning to Clara, who wasn’t looking at her but down at the floor.
“Not really.”
Nina started to unload the groceries she’d bought. The food pantry remained the same, and that gave her some kind of comfort.
“Why did it have to be Mr. Finnegan?”
Clara did want to talk. This was good. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if you were unhappy and so desperate to leave, why couldn’t you pick someone else? Someone who didn’t live across the street.” She gestured toward the Finnegans’ house angrily. “Someone who wasn’t famous.”
Nina couldn’t help it: she tried to bite back the laugh, but all she managed to do was infuriate Clara even further. “I’m so glad you think this is funny!”
“Clara, believe me, I do not find any of this funny. But Finn—Mr. Finnegan—he’s not famous. Truly. He’s just a businessman. Currently, a businessman who is out of his old job.”
“If he’s not famous, how come your wedding was in the paper?”
“I’m sorry about that. If I had known, I would have stopped it.” Nina opened a can of soup and dumped the contents into a small pot and reminded herself that Clara was a teenager. A teenager who had absolutely been wronged. By her.
“Why couldn’t you marry someone,” Clara continued, “who wasn’t my boyfriend’s father?”
“What?” Clara was thrilled to see her mother’s eyes widen, the pallor of her face fade a little bit. She’d hit her intended mark. “You have a boyfriend? Dune is your boyfriend?”
“Not anymore. Thanks to you. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not my costar in the school play because I had to drop out of the play, so I’m not even in the play now. And he’s not even my friend anymore.”
Nina was dumbfounded. “I had no idea. Absolutely no idea.”
“Yes, well, that was my brilliant idea. To keep it a secret until the New Year’s formal. That worked out great.”
Nina was stunned into silence. In one of their many brief conversations that only centered around logistics, Sam had mentioned Clara decided not to be in the play but hadn’t said why.
Nina was so preoccupied with everything else at that moment, she hadn’t thought to ask.
“Why are you not in the play? I don’t understand. ”
Clara rolled her eyes so theatrically that Nina was simultaneously concerned and impressed. “Dune is playing Jesus, right? And I was John the Baptist, okay? They are onstage together the entire show. We had songs together. Duets. Dune threatened to quit if I didn’t.”
“Why did they let him stay and not you? It’s completely unfair. Do you want me to talk to someone?”
“Nobody made me. It was my decision.”
“Damn,” Nina said softly. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. That really stinks.”
“My whole life stinks right now.”
Nina went back to the stove. Ladled some Chicken she had parents.
Nina should have counted to ten, she should have gone to the bathroom and taken a beat, she should have kept her mouth shut, but what she did instead was turn to Clara and say: “I truly hope this is the last time you hurt yourself by exaggerating the importance of your presence.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that,” Clara said, but Nina was ashamed to see Clara’s lower lip quiver.
“I’m sorry, that came out much harsher than I meant. I mean I want you to stick to the plan you had for your future. I don’t want you to miss college to make a point, Clara.”
“Okay. Well, I need to sleep.”
“Can I get you something else?” Nina was mad at herself now but also frustrated. Why did this continue to be so brutal?
“There’s some homemade soup in the freezer. I’ll take some of that. If you have the time.” She took her cup of tea and clomped up the stairs.
Nina opened the freezer. It was packed with food, apparently made by Clara.
She read the neatly labeled containers: beef stew, meatballs, tomato sauce, chili con carne—and that was just what Nina could see in the front rows.
The refrigerator shelves were stocked with both the ordinary—milk, butter, eggs, condiments—and every now and then something completely out of the ordinary: pancetta (how had Clara known where to find pancetta?), capers (ditto), clarified butter, a raspberry jam from France.
Looking into her former refrigerator was like running into an old friend who’d dyed her hair and maybe had some light cosmetic work done, familiar but different.
Bridie had told Nina that Clara was cooking a lot (“She’s pretty good?
” Bridie had said, visibly torn between the kitchen allegiance of her mother or her sister), but this wasn’t ordinary cooking.
Standing in front of the refrigerator, looking around the kitchen, processing the information about Dune and the play and college, Nina now understood she hadn’t fully absorbed the landscape of her problems with Clara.
This wasn’t resistance; this was a coup.